


I’m Yours

by withcoffeespoons



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Face-Fucking, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Possessive Sex, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21584437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withcoffeespoons/pseuds/withcoffeespoons
Summary: After a near-miss in Kirkwall, Orpheus Hawke makes a claim on Anders.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	I’m Yours

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled upon this in my folder of DA2 snippets, and realized it was a finished work I never posted. How lucky for you!
> 
> For reference: Orpheus

“I won’t let them have you,” Orpheus growled, pressing Anders against the door.

Hawke wasn’t a jealous man. He trusted Anders, and anyone within the walls of the city could tell the healer only had eyes for him. But it wasn’t jealousy that drove him against the mage’s body.

More rumors of Templar raids, a run-in that left three dead and Anders bleeding. No, it was a sudden fierce possession; it consumed him from the ground up, as Orpheus covered Anders’ body with his own, pressing him into the wood.

Anders clung to him, hands reeling him in, shuddering against the press of muscle and heat.

Their mouths barely pressed, teasing at the whisper of a kiss before Orpheus dragged his teeth across the hard line of Anders’ jaw, scraping a faint red line that stirred something deep in his chest. _Not enough, not yet._

“Oh, love--” Anders gasped. He reached for Orpheus’ hips, holding him firm as he thrust his own against him, not yet hard, but eagerly approaching. Just from the attention, Orpheus thought smugly. Just from _him_.

Sweat and dust lingered on his skin, but it tasted like Anders and the hint of magic that sang, electric and fierce just below his skin. He left an army of open-mouthed kisses across the sensitive skin of his neck, just above his collarbone, each drawing a desperate gasp.

Anders, Orpheus had found, loved the uncertain suspense of the warrior’s touch. The build-up, the anticipation dizzied him. For all that he fought for his own right to control, there was little the mage loved more than willingly surrendering it to his lover.

Orpheus relished the desperate whine of his name, burying himself in Anders’ pleasure. “Love,” Anders managed, his voice little more than a low growl, “we should--Bodahn is--”

Orpheus muttered what might have been an agreement if not for the way his fingers caught in the fastenings of Anders’ coat. “Not gonna make it upstairs.”

“Oh--I’m not asking for the bedroom,” he said, as though it were across Thedas, not merely up a flight of stairs. “I’m only asking for somewhere your dwarves won’t walk in on us.”

“Library.” Orpheus uttered the suggestion to the exposed skin stretched over Anders’ sternum.

Anders’ grip on his hair was strong, sharp, _good_. “Now,” he demanded, and who was Hawke to argue?

It was agony to allow Anders out from under his touch for the time it took them to stumble through the hall, Bodhan muttering, embarrassed. It took only a heartbeat to lock the door, but in that time, Anders was already leaning back against the desk, wearing a smirk as he fussed with the ties to his coat, as he kicked off first one unbuckled boot, then the other.

Orpheus was still in his boots, his dark armor disassembled in pieces stripped off along their path from the entryway. Even left in his leathers, he was far too clothed.

His hands were interrupted by Anders’ soft healer’s hands, broad staff callouses scraping the gentle scarred backs of Orpheus’ hands. Anders held Orpheus as he leaned in to kiss him. Orpheus groaned before his lips even made contact, the promise of it enough to drive his imagination and the stirring of his cock.

Orpheus moved to take a step, to press them closer together, but Anders moved with him, stepping back, tugging until he was sandwiched between his lover and the desk behind him. Orpheus leaned forward until he could lean his weight on the surface, Anders tilting back so that their hips were pressed.

Anders pulled away, just far enough that Orpheus tried to chase after him, only to find himself stopped by a gentle press of fingers against his lips.

Anders grinned and slid to his knees. Orpheus reached for him, and Anders stopped him with a look. “Hands on the desk.”

Orpheus’ dick twitched as he obeyed. This wasn’t what the itch in him demanded, it wasn’t what he felt just under his skin, a thrumming need alongside his heartbeat. But he trusted Anders, trusted the glint in his eye and trusted the touch of his hands against the ties of his breeches.

He moved impatiently against him, shifting on his feet as Anders pulled him, with agonizingly slow movements, from his smalls. As he wrapped his fingers around hard, hot flesh. “Anders…”

“Now, love,” he said, the words teasing at the head of his cock, “give me your hand.”

Orpheus hesitated, and Anders took his wrist with his free hand and drew it to the knot of his hair.

“I’m yours,” Anders insisted, an oath as much as an invitation, and then his mouth was wrapped around Orpheus, hot and slick and too much too fast--it was all Orpheus could do to hold on and shudder into the sensations.

He waited a moment for Anders to continue, and then he understood.

It was on the first full thrust that Orpheus felt the surge of power, of belonging. They had done this before, Orpheus taking Anders’ mouth, but never was it accompanied by this _need_ , this drive to possess, to claim. Orpheus’ grip in Anders’ hair had been loose enough not to hurt, his thrusts controlled and measured not to choke.

This was different.

This was rough and hard and Orpheus groaned at the wet, tight sound of Anders’ stuttered breath as he struggled to breathe. He gave no opportunity for Anders to pull away, and the healer took it so wholly, eagerly. His eyes were open and wide, watery as his throat clenched instinctively.

He pulled out, both left breathless, Orpheus gasping at the thin line of spit and precome that drew from Anders’ mouth to the head of his cock. He didn’t want to come. He did _not_ want to come yet.

He was tempted to, though. To lay his claim on him.

But there were better ways of doing that.

He yanked Anders up by the collar of the robes that hung loosely off his shoulders, pressing their mouths together. Anders held tightly onto Orpheus’ broad shoulders, fingers digging in bruisingly hard as his knees threatened to give out from under him.

Orpheus reached for him, nearly fell, himself, as he found him straining, leaking in his smallclothes. “Please, love,” Anders begged. It was a sound Orpheus knew well, one that he relished.

Orpheus hummed, the sound nearly a purr. “Please what?” he whispered into Anders’ neck, stubble meeting soft skin as he nuzzled against him.

“Oh, Orpheus, love, make me yours.”

Orpheus was used to waiting, to holding it off until neither of them could stand it and their desire threatened to consume them whole. That wasn’t what this was. This was a race, a grapple for each other. Orpheus pressed Anders into the flat of the desk, his arm pressing into the expanse of his back, skin still covered by his tunic. His fingers pressed against scars he knew were there, that marked his body.

Templars had already tried to lay claim to him. Anders fought against them for every freedom he had earned. Orpheus would not let them call him theirs again for as long as he could raise his sword against them.

He kept oil in the desk drawer for nights like this. Anders had frequently laid quips about his preparedness, but he held his tongue on the subject as Orpheus pressed his fingers inside him, his only sounds incoherent and wanting.

He was rough, but careful, reading Anders’ body like a familiar tome. He leaned down and pressed his erection into the curve of Anders’ hip, his fingers nearly still, pressing small teasing motions until Anders whined and pressed back in frustration. “I will take you when you are ready,” Orpheus promised. “And not a moment before.”

A protest died on Anders’ lips as he sank against him, and Orpheus fought the sudden desire to rut against him like an animal until he came.

“Do you know why, Anders?”

His reply was slurred. Orpheus’ fingers drove sharply into him, a shudder rippling through Anders’ body in response, his words turning into a whine stretched from his throat. “Because I’m yours,” Anders repeated, this time every word clarion and incendiary.

Orpheus pulled his fingers out and slicked himself hastily. Before Anders could utter a bereft complaint, he pressed into him, slow and tense, until he was fully inside him. Orpheus shifted, his hips twitching unevenly as he sought the best angle.

Anders’ hand flew back, knocking over an inkwell in its path. He gripped Orpheus’ flank with bruising intensity. “Stop,” he hissed, and Orpheus froze. “I’m--stop or I’ll come, Orpheus, I--I’m--” He moaned raggedly as he reached down and gripped himself hard enough to stave off his orgasm. Behind him, Orpheus shuddered.

He reached forward, tracing idle patterns against Anders’ back. He paused, considering the ink. Anders barely reacted as Orpheus tugged at his tunic, shifting it up and over his head, his arms caught in the sleeves, but he said nothing about the new restraint.

As Anders shivered beneath him, collecting himself, Orpheus traced a dark line down each of his shoulder blades, a simple soothing motion at first, but he wasn’t done. He drew a lattice to connect them, a series of tall stripes extending up the expanse of Anders’ back like wings of his own.

Anders hummed his approval. Orpheus couldn’t keep his hands off of him, and Anders was happy to oblige. “What are you--” He cut himself off with a moan as Orpheus finally-- _finally_ \--moved again.

“The crest,” Orpheus managed. “Now they’ll all know. You belong to _Hawke_.” He still had ink on his fingers, and when he grabbed at Anders’ hip, he left a neat array of fingerprints.

_His._

Even after struggling to hold himself back, Anders was close. Orpheus needed only to reach down and wrap a strong, slicked hand around his cock, stroking him hard in rhythm with his thrusts until Anders was practically doing the work for him, caught in between his cock and his grip. It only took him a number of jackknifing thrusts, and he came hard and messy into Orpheus’ hand.

Orpheus came moments later with a yell, muffled in the skin at the back of Anders’ neck, smelling sweat and ink and the blood that had stirred his passions to begin with.

“Oh, maker,” Anders moaned, squirming back against Orpheus, both sensitive, twitching, Orpheus’ erection yet to flag. He hissed as he pulled out, Anders still shifting back--reaching, Orpheus realized.

“Anders,” he muttered gently, soothing. Anders got like this sometimes, just after coming. Needy and desperate, and if they were both lucky, he could come again in minutes.

Orpheus reached down with gentle fingers, teasing at his entrance, picking up trails of his own come.

Anders was his, marked inside and out.

“--stay like this,” he caught Anders murmuring.

Orpheus’ dick twitched with half-hearted interest. Yes, he agreed. He wanted to keep Anders like this, marked and owned and _his_ , but that was for them, for the bedroom--or, sometimes, the library--and no one else.

“I won’t let them touch you,” he promised, drawing his fingers into Anders, come-slicked and loose. The mage gasped, open-mouthed against the wooden surface, his hands gripping at the edge, threads of his tunic snapping under careless strain.

Anders was still hard, still leaking, leaving smears against the desk as he rubbed against the surface.

“Maker, love,” Orpheus hissed. “You _are_ mine,” he said, wondering at the man before him. His words and his fingers must have been enough because Anders shuddered and spilled again, coming with a near silent gasp.

His face betrayed the haze of bliss blanketed over him, and as he came back to himself, Orpheus stroking his skin gently, he chuckled deeply. Orpheus made a small inquisitive sound as he helped Anders to his feet, eased the ache out of his muscles.

“You might have just tattooed _Property of Orpheus Hawke_ on my forehead.”

Orpheus pretended to consider this. “It’s a lot more fun this way,” he said, pressing a gentle whisper of a kiss to Anders’ forehead.

Just skin.

_Property of Anders_.


End file.
